


Snow On St. Maria Street

by poetatertot



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends to Lovers, M/M, More tags will be added later, Neighbors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetatertot/pseuds/poetatertot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year the snow falls down on Trost in thick, frosty layers that smother everything colorful in the world. Every year Jean Kirschtein pulls himself together and pretends that his shit job and familial distance doesn't bother him. Every year he sits through the cold days and colder nights feeling unfulfilled and lonely.</p>
<p>This year Marco moves into town and brings the warmth of the winter season with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be the beginning of a 30 day writing challenge but I got halfway through the first prompt and realized that I was shaping each prompt afterward to create a chapter of a story.. so here we are.
> 
> This is also my first attempt at writing any sort of fanfiction in five years so I apologize for being a tad rusty. Please let me know what you think!

Winter weather is the pits.

Don’t get me wrong. I love a snow day as much as the next guy, but when all you see every morning is varying gradients of gray outside your window and every step out of a doorway is like getting a bucket of ice dumped on your head and all you can focus on is how cold and prickly your toes feel every waking moment-

Well, you get the idea.

It doesn’t help that every time December rolls around, Christmas decorations start bearing their heads in the snow like a remake of _Night of the Living Dead_. Suddenly the holiday season is all anybody can think about, filling every waking moment with shopping and terrible commercials and endless renditions of the same ten songs from the 1980s. It’s enough to make any respectable citizen go mad. Or so I thought.

“I love this song,” one customer sighs happily, dumping her load of hair products at the register. “It’s totally perfect for putting anyone in the Christmas spirit, don’t you think?” She beams at me, sliding her discount card through the credit card receiver.

“Sure.” It really isn’t. This is the fourth time I’ve heard it during my shift today and the only feeling it’s inspired in me is deep-seated self-hatred. That, and a throbbing in my skull that makes me want to lay face-down somewhere cold.“Your total is nineteen dollars and thirty-eight cents.”

“Ever since the snow started falling I’ve been absolutely dying to go ice-skating,” she continues, rummaging through her purse for change. “I think that’s the best thing to do once everything freezes.” She pulls out the last few nickels with a triumphant look, sliding them across the counter to me. “What do you think?”

I think I’d rather bury myself in a drift somewhere. “I don’t know,” I say, staring out over the girl’s head. “I’ve never been.” I push her bags to her and pretend to start organizing lottery ticket rolls below the counter. “Have a nice day.”

I wait for the tell-tale jingle of the door opening and slamming shut before I lean against the counter, plant my face in my hands, and sigh loudly. My head is throbbing in a way that makes me feel like I’m going to puke.

It’s not that I always hated the holidays, really. I used to be like every other kid on Christmas morning, getting up at the break of dawn to see what Santa had left me underneath the tree. Back then the icicles that hung from the civic center were otherworldly to me and I would stay up and watch the sky whenever the snowflakes fell, awestruck at the sight of it all. Winter had been almost like a mythical wonderland when I was little.

That’s the problem with being young. When you’re little, everything seems to be part of a big, beautiful game that you play every day before getting tucked into bed. Things like take-backs and do-overs are as easy as breathing. Everything is wonderful.

I don’t know when I passed that threshold from childish fascination to bitter resentment, but it was far too soon. By the time I was fourteen, there was no warmth to be found in the changing of the seasons. The hallways of my home had become too quiet somewhere down the road, only heavy silences and something like bitterness looming like a dark cloud over the dinner table. The game had ended, it seemed, and I was left sitting in the dark, waiting for my next turn.

I had hoped moving out once I graduated high school would make things less uncomfortable. So far all it’s done is highlight how much I need to buy a pet or something.

I’m so far into my thoughts that a hideous caterwauling is all it takes for my face to slide out of my hands and slam into the counter, sparking a flurry of swears and an urge to dry heave that are both instantly drowned out. It’s as if every stray cat in the vicinity has crowded into the store and started screaming at the top of its lungs, piercing through the umpteenth rendition of “All I Want for Christmas” like a pencil through wet paper.

I close my eyes and wonder, just for a brief moment, if I could get away with vomiting on the carpet. Probably not. I settle for counting to ten quietly before moving around the counter.

As it turns out, the source of the mindblowing shrieks isn’t a ton of cats in a blender. It’s almost worse.

The seasonal aisle reveals what appears to be the Christmas Decoration Apocalypse, complete with too much glitter and a multitude of festive lights all blinking at the same time. Just about every item has been knocked off of the shelves: stuffed snowmen, boxes of garden decorations, even the miniature trees that look as if they’re made of fake grass. All of it has poured into the aisle to cover the floor in two feet of holiday merchandise. In the epicenter of the carnage, amidst a mountain of sing-along Santas that apparently have all been triggered to sing at the same time, is a person.

He paints a comical picture, sprawled out amongst the wreckage with a bucket of glitter in his dark hair and his mouth open in a perfect o. We lock eyes over the rubble and I can only imagine how disgruntled I look, because his expression twists into something close to utter horror, his hands coming up to wring at his jacket. I stand and wait with my arms crossed until every last Santa has stopped flailing and finished its broken song.

There’s a long, uncomfortable moment of silence where we just stare at each other.

“I- I-” he stutters, mouth gaping like a fish. “I only wanted-- I mean, I just-” His eyes flicker back and forth between me and the debris surrounding him, a flush beginning to spread from his cheeks down his neck in a violent shade of crimson. “I.. I’m sorry.”

* * *

 Nothing is broken, which is almost worse because then I have to put every single item back on the shelf where it’s price tag claims it to be. This is also disappointing because apparently the sing-along Santas work on a touch-sensor, and the damn things are all over the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” the guy repeats the millionth time, cringing as “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” starts up again under his foot. “I really am.” Rather than getting up and high-tailing it out of the store as I might have, the guy has the gumption to stick around while I clean up. He occasionally hands me things to put back, but spends a lot of his time wringing his hands as if he’s convinced touching anything will start another avalanche.

“‘S nothing,” I mutter, stacking up a shelf with boxes of Hanukkah lights. I accidentally drop one and hiss as it slams down on one knee cap. “Fuck.”

“If there’s any way I can help-” he says, his next words instantly drowned up by another singing Santa. I’m rapidly reaching the point where I want to call it quits and set fire to the whole lot of them before my cranium splits in half.

“If you want to help,” I snarl through gritted teeth, hefting two large boxes of lawn reindeer up, “then start picking up stuff instead of standing around.” Thankfully, rather than pointing out my utter lack of manners, he turns away and starts to gather together a pile of wrapping paper rolls.

After around ten minutes of uncomfortable silence broken only by the cries of Santa, the only thing left is a layer of glitter firmly meshed into the carpet fibres.

“I really am sorry,” the guy says quietly, running his fingers through his hair. Silver and gold glitter falls in a shower onto his shoulders like a bad case of dandruff, dusting his jacket thoroughly. “I was only looking, and then I tripped and..” He trails off, giving me a sheepish look through his eyelashes.

Is this guy for real?

“It’s fine,” I grumble. “Just.. next time, try not to land on the one thing that sings, okay?” He nods without a word, blushing a little. “What did you come in for anyway?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, brow furrowing. “You know,” he says after a moment, “I don’t really remember.”

Somehow this guy is for real.

“I just moved into town, you see,” he continues, unconsciously wringing at his jacket again. “I needed to get something for my new apartment and this was the closest store, so-”

“Well when you figure out what that is, be sure to come back and find it.” Fuck customer service. If I wanted a damn Advil before the whole mess, the idea of illicit drugs now sounded like a gift from God. Besides, I figure that he’s done enough to warrant a little bit of my displeasure.

“Right,” the guy says softly. He smiles weakly, running another hand through his glittery hair. “Sorry to bother you. I’ll.. I’ll go now, before I break something.”

“You do that.”

I watch him shuffle out the door into the wind, his shoulders slumped in dejection.

“Did you just kick out a customer?” Ymir asks, poking her head out from the next aisle over. Where was she ten minutes ago when I needed her? “I heard noises from the back a few minutes ago.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” I grumble, glaring at the carpet. So much for a simple day. “Can you handle the register? I need to finish cleaning this up.”

* * *

 

Every step on my two-block walk home is unpleasant, what with the wind needling at the back of my neck and my headache still going strong. I almost regret my decision a month ago to get an undercut. Almost.

As I wait to cross an intersection, fingers jamming into the crossway button furiously, a car comes up to stop at the light. The driver is a middle-aged man in an obnoxious knit sweater, one arm casually swung around the shoulders of his wife in a matching cardigan. She says something to him, one finger twisting in her suburban-grandmother haircut, and the look on his face as he turns to plant a kiss on her cheek is so tender that I have to look away. There’s a funny pain in my stomach, like my intestines have decided to twist with each other.

I studiously ignore it and cross the street as soon as the crosswalk sign blinks white.

Complex 104 is a bit unique compared to the structures around it. For one, it’s the only building that hasn’t undergone renovation or gotten a fresh coat of paint in the past twenty years. The paint on the outer paneling is beginning to peel and chip away, revealing the stonework beneath, and there’s only a discolored space where the street address should be. Compared to the other navy blue buildings with their clean windows and intact entrance signs, 104 is like the warped, drug addict cousin of the family.

Another thing about Complex 104 is that for whatever reason, nobody above the age of thirty can stand living inside of it. I had at first assumed this had to do with the dirt-cheap rent. Now, after living here for a year and seeing the varying rumpled appearances of my neighbors, I figure it’s more of an aesthetic choice.

As soon as I open the front door I’m greeted with the mixed aroma of mothballs and old wet sneakers left out to dry. Somewhere above my head there’s a ton of loud, thumping footsteps and a distant shriek of indignation. Welcome home, Jean.

Still, terrible ventilation and thin walls aside, nothing sounds better than sinking into my bed with a hot cup of-

“May-day! _Rogue box_!” Someone screams and then the staircase is blocked by a huge cardboard monstrosity the size of a goat that comes barreling straight into my chest, knocking me back three steps onto the floor.

I lay there for a few moments, spread-eagle, and stare at the ceiling. Maybe if I close my eyes and start counting to ten, this whole day will just be a shitty dream and I’ll be able to wake up for real.

Somehow that’s not much more comforting.

“Ohmygod,” someone groans, panicked steps carrying down the stairwell. “I think I killed somebody.” There’s laughter somewhere above, and then the footsteps are right at my head and freckled, brown fingers are curling around the corners of the box to move it.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” he whimpers, rolling the box off of my chest. “You see, I’m moving in upstairs and-” He pauses, meeting my eyes. “Oh. _Oh._ ”

He didn’t even bother to get the glitter out of his hair, I think.

And then: it’s only the first day of December.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning sweatpants and a can opener.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last few weeks have been absolutely hectic with finals and holiday events but I am FINALLY free to do as I please for the next week and a half (read: sleep in, drink a lot of coffee, become a human slug).  
> Hopefully I'll be able to put up another chapter before my break ends.
> 
> Enjoy the update!

Living in Complex 104 has numbed me to a lot of things: the prevalent smell of nicotine that hangs heavily in the hallways, the late-night thumping and mumbling of the wandering or inebriated. No longer does the booming bass of my next-door neighbor’s TV keep me up until the late hours either. I’ve learned to tune out most outside sounds or smells, letting them flit at the edge of my consciousness like static.

It’s probably because I let myself get complacent that the shouting wakes me up instantly.

I lay there for a moment, listening to the rhythmic _thump_ of something distant like a steady heartbeat, accompanied periodically by a faint call. The words barely register in my brain, mushing together into a gargle that slogs through my ears. I can tell even without opening my eyes that it’s far too early. It just _feels_ like it’s some godforsaken hour.

Still, the faint pounding seems to go on and on. I crack one eye open and squint at my alarm clock blearily as the fat red numbers proudly proclaim it to be no later than seven in the morning. _Seven_. Christ. I had hoped to sleep until at least nine after yesterday’s fiasco.

After knocking me to the floor with what turned out to be a box loaded with old paperbacks, glittery-boy had pulled me to my feet and announced with what semblance of formality there was left between us that he was the new tenant in the building. On the third floor.

In the few minutes after our less-than-joyous reunion I had decided to play the 'friendly neighbor' act for whatever crazy reason and ended up helping him carry the cardboard monstrosity back up a flight of stairs — and then the next two, because the moment I let go on the first landing he looked as if he might go tumbling back down backward, box and all.

Between the ground floor and the third, I learned quite a bit about the new complex resident. For instance, the incident in the mini-mart was no solitary case. Every few steps or so I end up bearing the brunt of the box’s weight as he slips and trips and gasps like he’s a newborn duckling that doesn’t know what to do with it’s own feet. I turn us around after half a staircase to lead backwards, and he _still_ stumbles.

Our haphazard scaling of the stairs is accompanied by his talking, which turns out to be something like a nervous habit of his. Even though he’s breathless and stumbling so much that it’s a mystery he doesn’t bite right onto his tongue he still exhales words, voicing his fascination with the building that’s oh-so-quaint in his opinion and he just can’t get enough of the prayer flags hanging from the sill of the top complex on the right corner or how we’ve met twice now and wow this staircase is so hard to climb, how do I do it every day?

And then, as we finally dump the box at his doorstep, I register the number emblazoned on the front of the door like a prison tag. Number 17. Just three more apartments down the hall from me.

When I tell him so, he offers me a breathless smile so bright you would have thought I was the goddamn president of the United States asking to shake his hand.

His sickeningly cheery, happy-go-lucky attitude and pointless blabbering are the exact qualities of every airhead on earth that I’ve had to deal with in the mind-numbing afternoons of the mini mart, explaining slowly that  _no, I can’t extend the discount deadline to today,_ or _these are coupons for Walmart sir, not our own. No, you can’t still use them_.

So naturally I tell him that if he ever needs anything, he’s welcome to come knock on my door.

 

* * *

 

As I lay there on my back, watching the ceiling fan whirr around and around in its endless hypnotic cycle, it finally occurs to me that the noises coming from the hallway (which still haven't stopped) might actually be glitter-boy. I listen to the soft thumps for a moment longer before poking a foot out of my nest of blankets and carefully touching the nubby carpet, hissing softly when I realise how cold it actually is.

The pounding noises become less frequent as I dig for a pair of socks to put over my suddenly-exposed toes, but it doesn't stop. It doesn't stop when I run a hand through my bedhead and squint at my reflection in the bathroom mirror from across the room, nor does it end when I push open the curtains in the bedroom to reveal the steadily-falling snow outside.

Another day of cold white nothing, it seems. I scowl to myself and close the curtains again, sending the apartment back into darkness.

By the time I reach for the deadbolt the noises have stopped, suddenly sending the apartment into an almost strange silence broken only by the faint hum of the mini fridge. I unlock the door anyway and stick my head out into the hallway.

Sure enough there's glitter-boy, slowly tiptoeing back down the way he came as if he's worried his bare feet might wake up the tenants between us. He looks almost like a little boy, comprised entirely of too-big cotton pajamas and ruffled cowlicks, with a can of instant coffee clutched in one hand. Why is he tiptoeing when he just spent what must have been five minutes banging on my door like the sky was falling down?

"Did you need something?" I ask, not bothering to keep my voice low. If the other tenants have a problem, they can stick it somewhere else. I have to deal with their raucous laughter in the middle of the night all the time anyway.

He jumps at least a foot, clutching his can to his chest by reflex as if it's a stuffed animal. I’m instantly struck with the image of a little kid clinging to their favorite toy, bashful expression and all.

"Hey," he murmurs softly, his voice barely carrying. "Sorry to bother you so early. I figured you were asleep, so I gave up."

I raise an eyebrow. "I was."

"Oh." There an awkward silence where he stares at my sweatpants, eyes traveling up slowly to my face before darting to the can in his hand and sticking there. He shuffles for a moment, looking a little pink in the face. Why? "I.. need a can opener," he mumbles.

 

* * *

 

"A can opener," Ymir echoes in mocked disbelief. She takes a drag of her cigarette. "Really."

"A can opener," I repeat, sliding a hand over my eyes. "That's what he said."

"So what did you do?” She asks, idly flicking ash onto the ice-encrusted gravel. She sounds disinterested, but there’s a funny look on her face that’s making her eyes squeeze a little around the corners.

“What else would I do? I let him borrow it, of course.” I huff indignantly at the wicked smile that breaks across her face, watching the creases around her eyes draw her face into a laugh. “ _What_?”

She chuckles quietly with mirth for a moment, pausing to take another drag. “Jean,” she snickers, “You made the Girl Scouts cry when they came into the store and tried to sell to us.”

“Lemon cookies are the work of the devil,” I grumble. Still, I see her point. To be honest, even I didn’t know why I handed it over so easily. The easy, simple ‘no’ I always gave everyone had sat in the back of my throat, ready to fly. I had opened my mouth to make an excuse, to say I didn’t know where mine was, but the lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

I ended up giving him the answer he wanted, the one every neighbor is nervous to expect but does anyway. It was only one word, but it was enough to fuel another one of those too-bright smiles.

He had looked like an imitation of a child on Christmas morning, can in one hand and opener in the other, eyes too bright for 7am on my sorry doorstep. It was absolutely absurd.

“So.. what are you gonna do about him?” Ymir casually asks, feigning disinterest with a kick at the gravel. She won’t look at me, but that stupid grin is enough to raise my defenses anyway.

“What is there to do? He’s my neighbor, not a child I have to babysit.” Ruffled pajamas and pink cheeks aside. I didn’t even know his name.

Ymir just smiles and smiles, taking one last drag of her cigarette before stamping it out under her sneaker. “Come on,” she chuckles, not bothering to answer my question. “I think I hear someone coming in through the front.”

I am not a religious person in the slightest, but the sight of glitter-boy —sans glitter— at the front counter is enough to make me wonder if my mention of the devil sparked some supernatural being’s interest. He looks ridiculous, standing there smiling at nothing in particular like some sort of damn saint, contemplating life and all of its devices.

“Can I help you with something?” Ymir asks, amused. Not-so-glittery-boy blinks owlishly, looking around as if he’s just realized he’s standing in the middle of a store and not a church garden.

“Actually, yes,” he replies after a moment, that easy smile of his widening to fill his whole face. “I’m looking for oven cleaner? I tried to make something last night and melted cheese got all over the grates. It was a mess.”

“Oh, right,” Ymir hums, nodding like she knows all about it. “We’ve got some of that. Jean can show you where it is.”

No, I won’t. I can’t. I hate customers. I always work behind the counter. Customer care is Ymir’s job.

“Sure,” I mutter, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I know where they are. Follow me.”

Not-so-glittery-boy wastes no time in swooping in on the obvious point of conversation, falling into step beside me like we’re old friends and not day-old neighbors with one too many uncomfortable encounters. “Jean, huh?” He smiles even wider, if that’s possible. “French?”

Glitter-boy, boy genius. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” he chirps. “Mom or dad?”

We are not having this conversation right now, I think to myself. I can feel my insociable soul shriveling in on itself like a raisin. “Mom,” I mumble after a moment. 

It's clear that glitter-boy doesn't share the same qualms about chitchatting with strangers. “I’m Marco,” he announces happily, positively beaming. “Not French.”

Our trivial conversation is thankfully brought to an end by the Home Cleaning aisle. I have never been so relieved and weirdly annoyed at the same time to see a canister of lemon-scented cleaner.

I can feel Ymir’s eyes on me when I slouch back up to the front counter and pick up a broom, sweeping away at nothing. “Did he find what he was looking for?”

“Beats me.”

She tsks in mocked displeasure. “That’s not customer service, Jean Kirschtein. What if he had trouble deciding between two brands?”

“Then I guess he’s going to be standing there for a while,” I reply flatly, turning my back to Ymir completely in an attempt to ignore her.

“What’s crawled up your ass and died?” She presses. I can hear the bubbling of another snicker in her tone. “Wait, don’t tell me. Is that him? The guy who took your can opener?”

I try even harder to ignore her and focus on the dust collecting at my feet.

By the time my shift is over I deeply regret ever telling Ymir about the whole can opener incident and dearly wish I could have my cheap appliances back in their drawers where they belong. Every time I try to get anything done at all, Ymir pulls a shit-eating grin and pretends to act like some bubbly maiden, answering my irritated demands and questions with faked surprise and soft spoken words.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who she’s mimicking. I want to punch her in the gut.

My shitty mood follows me like a stormy cloud from the front counter of the market all the way to my front door, where I discover that I just might have actually left my keys back in my locker at work. My irritation quickly gives way to bitter frustration as I desperately claw at every pocket on my person, finding nothing but the usual old wrappers and ticket stubs from the bus.

“ _Fuck_ ,” I hiss, giving a spiteful little kick at the doorjamb. I keep a spare in the mailbox, sure, but it's already been less of a stellar day and the box is down three flights out in the unforgiving weather. Hell if I wanted to make that trip for the third time today.

Like a moth to the light of my distress, the saint himself appears at my side. I didn’t even hear him open his front door, or see him come from down the hallway.

“Um, hey again,” he begins, fingers running through his disheveled hair. His voice is so infuriating close to the one Ymir used all day that I have the brief urge to grip him by the shoulders and shake him into silence.

“Hey, again,” I mutter instead, pasting something like pained pleasantry over my irritation. “Is there something else you need?”

He has the good grace to blush a little, probably recognizing that he’s been a little more needy than the average neighbor in the brief span of time we’ve known each other. Good.

“Actually, no.” Marco ekes out a little weak laugh. “I was just going to give you back your can opener. And..” He pauses his finger-combing for a moment, moving to pluck and pull at the collar of his sweater in a sudden fit of nervous energy. “Well, you must have been in a rush this morning or something after you got up, because as you were leaving I happened to be getting my mail and I noticed that you dropped your bag lunch halfway to the corner and your key fell out and I tried to get your attention but the bus pulled up and when I saw you later I had completely forgotten until I was already back home so—”

“Are you saying you have my key?”

He stops, looking startled by his own breathless chatter. “Yeah,” he finally mumbles after a moment, fiddling with his front pocket before revealing a little toothpick of a door key that’s been weathered with age.

I expect him to turn away once I’ve opened the door, but he’s still standing there fidgeting like he’s about to explode into another flurry of nervous talking.

“Anything else?” I bite, raising an eyebrow.

“Well..” He shuffles, bringing his fingers up to his hair again. “To repay you. Do you like food?”

“Excuse me?”

“Food. I-” He blinks, turning pink again. “Dinner. Think of it as payback for waking you up this morning, and letting me borrow your things.”

We stare at each other. He’s giving me something akin to a helpless puppy-look, but the siren song of my bed and a new episode of _The Office_ is calling to me from the other side of the doormat.

Say it then. Say no. You’ve already done enough for him today. He can pay you back in cash if he wants.

“Sure,” I reply. Marco practically beams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect plot stuff and uneasy eye contact on Jean's part next chapter.  
> As always, any feedback is appreciated! You can even come chat with me at poetatertot.tumblr.com if you like.


End file.
